


To King's Landing and Back

by retorica



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hate to Love, Loss of Virginity, Partners to Lovers, Reluctant Partners, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2018-12-16 14:30:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11830692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retorica/pseuds/retorica
Summary: AU. from Season 1/Book 1. Jon never joins the Night's Watch. Instead, Catelyn Stark sends him to King's Landing after his father. Jonsa. Slowburn.





	1. arrival

**Author's Note:**

> I know that I have an on-going Jonsa fic that I have to return to, but this idea won't give me peace (even if maybe it's been done before?). As usual, the story will be a mixture of show/books and it will be a pretty lengthy slowburn, just to warn you in advance. Sansa and Jon start out being quite frosty to each other (with a good dose of UST) and it takes a lot of crazy events to bring them together. The story will follow the book/show plot-line with a few changes here and there. Hope you enjoy!

 

 

He was to travel to the Capital. Lady Stark had written to Petyr Baelish, who promised to help him reach King’s Landing safely and to install him in the Red Keep. Once he was there, Ned could not turn him away.

“You are to look after your sisters,” Lady Stark told him with trembling lips. She had never before called them sisters to him.

Secretly, Jon knew why he was being sent away. It wasn’t just the safety of Sansa and Arya that concerned her, but Robb’s claim to Winterfell. She saw the bastard as a threat, growing older and bolder and closer to her sons. Send him to her daughters, then. Make him their servant. He loved Arya fiercely, didn’t he? And he would protect Sansa too, because she was a sweet-smelling girl who never said a bad word.

Jon had no power to deny Catelyn Stark.

 

 

He misliked the passage on ship from White Harbor. The sea wasn’t for him, he decided. Too rough and choppy and unyielding, you could plant no trees here. The salt stung his eyes. He sat below deck and thought about his future. Did he have one? He couldn’t say. Lady Stark didn’t want him in the North, and his father probably didn’t want him in the South. Would he have to make for Essos and break bread with all sorts of queer folk? Would he have to kill and eat lizards in Sothoryos?

It pained him that he had to leave Ghost behind. He felt the loss more sharply than if he had lost a limb. Farlen, the kennelmaster, promised to look after his direwolf, and Bran said he would let Ghost ride with Summer so he would not be lonely.

But Jon felt the wolf would be lonely either way. Just as he would be.

 

 

He had never seen this much ochre before. Every roof was a ripe peach. The creamy shades of gold glinted like insects under his eyelids. The air was pungent and full of foreign spices. His forehead throbbed with the constant chatter and clamor, the caterwauling of beggars, the determined cries of merchants, the steely clang of the Gold Cloaks.  It was like being thrown in a boiling cauldron. His skin seemed to darken just after a minute spent outside. Everywhere he looked, someone was trying to sell him something. He had never smelled the gutters before, but soon he became accustomed to the particular odor of shit. He did not become accustomed to the cloying oils and perfumes that attempted to disguise the shit, poorly.

Petyr Baelish’s establishment was of ill sort. He soon came to realize that when he saw the women walking languorously, half-disrobed in front of him. From the outside, the house was unremarkable. But within, marble and silk had fashioned a small palace for the pleasures of the flesh. Jon had visited a brothel only once, dragged along by Theon who had called him a coward for never trying. But that was a measly barracks compared to this. And he had not gone through with the thing, as the thought of birthing bastards was enough to leave him cold. The girls here were beautiful and exotic. They had no missing teeth and they were not riddled with all sorts of pox, either. But he kept to himself in a small room Lord Baelish had provided for him, because he would go to the grave before he spilled his seed in a woman's womb. 

Perhaps he should become a Maester.

Lord Baelish was interested in him and asked him many questions at supper, which they shared in his solar.

“You don’t look much like him, your father,” he commented over a bundle of fat grapes.

Jon nibbled on the stinky cheese that smelled like rot. “He says I take more after my mother.”

“But he has never told you much about her, has he?”

Jon noted that Lord Baelish’s eyes never smiled, though his lips were constantly playing at a smirk.

“No, my lord. It wouldn’t be proper.” He felt a tightening in his voice, so he washed it down with wine. He had never drunk this sort before. They called it Arbor Gold. It left him dizzy with thirst, head spinning.

“No, I suppose not. Still, you must be yearning to know, like any child,” Lord Baelish spoke delicately, slipping a grape into his mouth.

“I’m not a child,” Jon murmured into his cup. “And it’s not my place.”

“Well, that was _before_. Now you’re in King’s Landing. You are going up in the world. Soon, you won’t be denied this knowledge anymore. _I_ can help you, if you like.”

Jon stared down at his lap. The room was too hot. He ached for cold and snow.

“With what, my lord?”

But Lord Baelish only smiled, his eyes appraising him coolly. Jon felt that the man did not particularly want to help him, merely that he wanted to know about his mother. He didn’t like not knowing something.

Jon ran his tongue over his lips, soaking up the wine. “From the little I know, my mother could’ve belonged to a place like this.”

Lord Baelish chuckled airily. “If she did, she must have been a true beauty. I only abide beauties.”

 

 

He had not anticipated his father’s anger. He had guessed he would be displeased with the scheme, but the rage that furrowed his face was so deep that it almost looked like terror. Ned Stark was _aghast_ to find him in the capital. In the first moment, he could not even speak. Jon felt this was rather strange. Certainly, he might disapprove of his wife’s actions, but it wasn’t half as bad as sending a stranger to look after the girls. He felt sad, wondering if he was a painful reminder of dishonor. But he shook himself out of these thoughts. Ned Stark had always been fair and affectionate to him and he had never made him feel he was a burden.

“You will be sent _back_ to Winterfell tomorrow,” Ned told him at length, slamming down a red ledger. His rooms were dominated by the same visceral colors that he had seen on the streets. You could not escape these fleshy hues. His father, too, had acquired a new authority living in the Hand’s Tower.

“Pardon, my lord, but Lady Stark will not have me back.”

Ned ground his teeth. “She will do as I say. I am her lord husband.”

“Aye, she’ll obey, but not gladly…” Jon trailed off, feeling suddenly disgusted with the idea of going home to meet Catelyn’s fury.  “I would rather stay here, with you and my sisters.”

 “This is not a game of wants, Jon. I can’t have you here.”

“Lord Baelish said – he said many lords bring their bastards to court and it is no great shame.”

Ned scoured him with a black look. “If you think that’s my concern, you’re greener than I thought.”

“Then tell me your concern, Sire.”

Ned pinched the bridge of his nose severely and for the first time Jon noticed how _tired_ he looked. He had dark circles under his eyes. He had lost weight. His bones showed through his skin. He was ascetic. Even Uncle Benjen looked haler, and he lived at the Wall.

“The court is my concern. King Robert’s rule is my concern.”

“Are they not going well?” Jon ventured in a small voice.

Ned shook his head. “You will go back to Winterfell.”

He did not know where this boldness had come from, but Jon was also tired. Tired of not being wanted, tired of being a negligible quantity. He had never complained before, but traveling half the known world to King’s Landing had opened up his grievances. He would not return to a mother that would grudge the sight of him.

“I won’t, Father.”

“You will listen–”

“If you send me back, I won’t stay at Winterfell. I’ll try to find my luck elsewhere. I’m good with a sword. ‘Haps I’ll try to squire for a nameless Knight. Or join the Citadel.”

“Don’t be so foolish,” Ned snapped, and there was sorrow in his voice. “I need to know you’re safe. Not gallivanting the world and getting yourself killed.”

“Then let me stay, Father.”

If Ned had loved him less, he might have been firmer. If he had not promised his sister, he might have let Jon be his own man and choose his destiny. He was old enough.

But that was another life, another time.

If he could not send him back, he would keep the boy close and watch over him, even in this nest of vipers.

 

 

“Jon! I can’t believe it! You – you’re here! Father sent for you, he must have!”

Arya flew into his arms, just like he knew she would. He did not correct her guess. She hugged him fiercely, balling her small fists into his tunic. She was jumping around him happily, barreling him with affection.

“What are ye wearing? Shouldn’t you be dressed like a lady?”

Arya twirled around happily in her breeches and shirt, proud as a queen. “This is my sparring apparel. Father hired a master fencer all the way from Braavos! You’ll have to spar with him. He’ll lay you flat in under a minute!”

“You’re becoming a fearsome warrior, then?”

Arya grinned. “Syrio says that a warrior is a dancer. He says I’m very bright for my age. I’ve already caught a few pigeons and a cat.”

Jon laughed. “Pigeons and cats? What kind of training is that?”

“You have to train your reflexes first. Your body must be a weapon, just like your sword,” Arya protested with a blush. “Besides, I can’t use Needle yet or I’ll cut myself.”

Jon was happy to see she still kept the sword he’d given her under her bed.

It was infectious, being around family that loved you.

Sansa stood aside, watching them with a demure smile. She was dressed in fine silks and her hair was done up in a painful fashion, with all sorts of loops and braids and cowls. She looked like a wedding cake. It must be the Southron fashion, he thought, though what kind of fashion made a young girl look so silly?

She hadn’t jumped forward to greet him, which was to be expected. She only said she was glad to see him and asked him if his journey had been safe, all the while her blue eyes searching him, wondering why he was _really_ here. Luckily, Arya had put off any uncomfortable questions with her excitement. She filled up the silences with laughter and made up for her sister’s wariness with promises of adventure.

“We’re going to hunt for pigeons together. I’ll take you all the way to Flea Bottom.”

“ _Arya_ ,” her sister interrupted archly. “You can’t do that. Father said you’re never to leave the Red Keep again.”

“I’ll have Jon with me, it’ll be safe.”

“It’s not proper for you and Jon to be seen in such quarters. We are guests here. What will the Queen think if she finds out?”

“She won’t, unless _you_ tell her!” Arya retorted angrily.

Sansa wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I can’t _lie_ to her if she asks me. Do you want her to think we’re savages?”

Arya rolled her eyes. “Do you see, Jon? She’s more obnoxious now, she’s got herself all these airs.”

“I do not have _airs_!” Sansa replied sternly. She articulated each world, her accent foreign. “They’re called good manners. You’d do well to learn some. We’re not in the North anymore.”

“Aye,” Jon interfered in a conciliatory fashion. “We’re not. We should try and stick to the rules.”

Arya puffed her cheeks in frustration. “Don’t take her side!  She’s just saying that because she wants Joffrey to think she’s royalty.”

Sansa flushed an unattractive maroon, but she had enough presence of mind to hold her tongue. She nodded to Jon and stormed out of the room.

“I’m not taking her side,” Jon said, kneeling by his little sister. “But we do have to be careful, we’re not home anymore.”

Arya pulled him to her chest in a tight embrace. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t care about her, anyway. I’m just happy you’re here.”

 

 

He slept in the Tower below the sisters' chamber, although he had heard from Arya that she took to sleeping with the Septa, for she could not _stand_ Sansa's odious prattling.  Jon's room seemed larger to him than his father's at home. He could not get used to it. The thick rugs made him shy to walk. The sweet-smelling rushes clogged his nose. The bedspread was too soft to the touch. The furniture was too ornate. He had servants changing his chamber pot and sheets every other day, while at home this ritual was not observed with such distinction. He was a country bumpkin, landed in the middle of all this finery. He was foolish, like his father had said. 

But he was here now and determined to stay until the very end. 


	2. at court

 

The Red Keep was vast. He had thought the Tower of the Hand was grand, with so many levels and quarters and private outbuildings, but he had been floored by the sheer size of the apartments and halls that made up the fortress standing on Aegon’s Hill. At least two castles the size of Winterfell would have fit comfortably in its environs. He could not stop gawking at the magnificence of it all, but then that was expected of him. It did not take long for the people at court to cotton on to the fact that Ned Stark’s bastard had landed in their midst. As he was a low-born country bumpkin from the North, it was only fitting that he should be in awe of the graces and refinements of the South.  

Jon heard the whispers following him in the Great Hall as he was brought before the King and Queen. He had already caught glances of them at Winterfell, but he had not been allowed to step forward then, as he was only a bastard. He was not sure he should be introduced _now_ , but his father considered that keeping him in the Tower like a shameful secret was not likely to bode well.

“I don’t want them to think I have anything to hide,” Ned told him in confidence.

So Jon bent the knee in front of the high lords and ladies of the court with his father standing at his side. He could tell they all found the spectacle amusing, although they were skilled at hiding their derision.

King Robert smiled at him absently, for he was already quite bored with the audiences he had been obliged to hold for the better part of the morning. It was a rare occasion to see him on the Iron Throne (as Ned later told him in private), and Jon did not think he looked very kingly at it, for he could barely hold himself upright with his fat belly. Next to him, the Queen looked cold and radiant, dressed in sparkling red. He noticed that her hair was done up like Sansa’s - or more likely, his sister had taken after her. It wasn’t a fashion that he found very pretty, but then perhaps the point was to intimidate rather than please.

Cersei Lannister regarded him with polite distaste, and he remembered she was just as unimpressed with Winterfell when she first glanced at it. She spoke airily about being loyal to His Grace and making himself useful, as someone of his station must always seek to better himself.

“Aye,” Robert agreed without paying attention. “The boy should squire for a great knight. We’ll see to that, won’t we?”

The King glanced sideways at a fat bald man whose hands were hidden in his robes. He looked like an ornate egg with all his rich silks and his pale powdered skin. But his eyes were like insects, crawling over the court tirelessly.

“Certainly, Your Grace,” the bald man replied in a high-pitched, lilting voice.

Jon was not expected to speak, so he merely stared down at the marble floor. He wondered how many broken swords made up the Iron Throne.  He felt as if his life was being decided then and there. He didn’t much like the sound of it, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Ned thanked His Grace for his patience and King Robert waved his hand, dismissing the court, and appearing very eager to do so. He left the Great Hall in a ponderous fashion, ignoring the Queen. He was followed promptly by his white-cloaked Kingsguard. Jon recognized the leonine and arrogant Jaime Lannister among them, and much to his surprise, the knight met his eyes boldly and stepped forward to greet him.  

“I would not waste you on squiring, Jon Snow. I’ve seen you hold a sword. Perhaps we’ll make a Kingsguard out of you. Would you like to serve the King?”

Jon suspected this was a fine jape at his expense and perhaps the distrust was clear in his eyes because Jaime laughed and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Ser Addison Hill was a bastard, you know. Bastard of Cornfield he was called. Which King did he serve, do you recall?”

“It was Aegon the Conqueror, Ser,” Jon replied wanly.

Jaime seemed disappointed that he knew. It had spoiled his joke. “Indeed, and Ser Hill became Lord Commander in his time, which goes to show that anything is possible, and that you should not lose faith.”

Jon was about to reply that he was not looking for glory of this kind, when his father stepped forward and told him it was time to leave. He meant it more for Ser Jaime’s ears, who smiled brazenly and walked away, as if he had outwitted them all.

“Don’t let them rile you up,” Ned whispered in his ear as he guided him out of the Great Hall.

But Jon was not feeling angry. At the moment, he felt he was being _watched_. Only he could not see who it was.

He chanced to look up into the wings and sure enough, Lord Baelish was standing in the gallery, staring down at him. He smiled and nodded faintly when their eyes met.

 

 

“Did you see how fat he is? He’s getting on bigger than a barrel.”  

“Arya!” Sansa reprimanded. “You can’t speak so coarsely about the King.”

Jon couldn’t help the short laugh that escaped his lips, but he sobered up quickly when he caught Sansa’s offended glare.

It did not do to make fun in her presence. She was very sensitive about any rough or salacious remarks on matters of the court. Such things seemed as sacred to her as the Faith of the Seven. Luckily, Jon didn’t have to spend much time in her presence as he and Arya usually managed to get away during the day. They spent their time exploring the Tower of the Hand, looking for secret passageways. Other times, Jon would take up with Jory Cassel who would send him to train with the rest of the household guards. But evenings could not be avoided, as their father insisted they all sit down for supper together. It was a novel experience for Jon, sitting down with his sisters at the same table. He would never have been allowed this intimacy at home. Often times, Ned could not be present for their meals since he was wretchedly busy with ruling the kingdom in Robert’s stead. And so, they had to listen to Sansa talk about her “beloved Joffrey” or the latest fashions at court, which bored him senseless. He had been lucky enough to avoid seeing the Prince Heir so far, and he hoped to keep it that way, for he thought him a pompous and mean little boy. Arya had told him about the incident at the Trident where poor Mycah had lost his life. He had been aggrieved to hear that she’d had to chase Nymeria away and that Sansa had lost Lady. All because the Prince had been a cruel coward. Nothing good could come from the loss of two wolves. Yet he was not about to air these opinions to anyone but Arya.

 “I can say whatever I want if it’s the truth. And anyway, you’re not Mother,” Arya retorted, stabbing a buttered parsnip with great force.

“I am older than you, so you must listen when I tell you these things. I’m only doing it for _your_ sake.”

“I don’t need the stupid advice of a liar."

The younger sister had not forgotten that Sansa had not stood up for her when she was put on trial. 

“Then I will tell Septa Mordane you’re misbehaving and then she will make you embroider cushions all day,” Sansa replied coolly, which had the effect of turning Arya’s cheeks the color of the Lannister coat of arms.

Jon knew that this would only turn into a nasty fight so he cleared his throat and asked Sansa, “Do you know who that bald man is? The one dressed in the silk robes and soft slippers?”

His sister frowned, straightening her shoulders. She was still not used to having her half-brother so close. At Winterfell, she could go for days without seeing him. She paused for a moment. “You shouldn’t refer to him like that. But he’s known as Lord Varys. He’s part of the Small Council.”

Even Arya seemed curious to hear this.

“I saw him today, when Father presented me. The King told him to arrange for me to become a squire,” he said, staring down at his plate.

Sansa smiled graciously. “That is good news, Jon.”

“Good news?” Arya echoed disparagingly. “How can it be good news? It means Jon will have to serve some strange House.”

Sansa ignored her sister. “It is far better than many can hope for.”

Jon nodded his head, noting that his sister sounded a little like the Queen in her condescension.  He wished that supper would be over soon so he could retire. He was tired of meaningless pleasantries, which he saw enough of around him.

But Sansa was not done with court gossip. “I hear Father is to have a tourney in his honor. How I long to see one. The knights will come from every part of the kingdom. I do hope he says yes.”

Arya could not contradict her here, since she was keen on seeing the jousting, but Sansa clearly had something else in mind, if her wistful eyes were anything to go by. She was probably hoping she would be crowned Queen of Love and Beauty at the end. Jon stifled a small chuckle, but Sansa’s keen eye missed nothing.

“What is so funny, Jon?”

He coughed and reached for his glass. “Nothing at all.”

 

 

In truth, Sansa was hoping that the tourney would also be a good occasion to reconcile with Joffrey. The Prince no longer held her in such high regard and was often chilly towards her. She could not entirely blame him. He was still sore about her sister’s thoughtless actions at the Trident, although Sansa had tried to apologize many times. She was worried that this slight would forever ruin her chances with him and that he would eventually send her back to Winterfell. That would be quite devastating.

There were times when she thought about Mycah and the Hound. She told herself that Joffrey had had nothing to do with his death, and that it was his beastly sworn shield who had acted out of a thirst for violence. Certainly Joffrey had been hurt and it was his duty to protect him. But she supposed that Joffrey should have punished him or sent him away for his crime. Yet the Hound still trailed after the Prince like a bad omen.

_That is the price of being high-born_ , she thought with a pang. _You are surrounded by people who are good at killing_

Every day she took great care with her dress and hair and waited in the Great Hall to catch a glimpse of him, but he stubbornly ignored her.

Until one afternoon when her prayers seemed to be answered. Joffrey called on her and invited her on a walk across the ramparts of Maegor’s Holdfast. He wanted to show her the preparations that were being made for the tourney and you could only see them at a great height.

She was delighted to accept.

The only thing that shadowed her happiness was that the Hound would accompany them and make sure nothing befell the Prince. It smarted a little that Joffrey probably thought she wasn’t to be trusted yet. But she would regain his good will, step by step. 

They walked together in silence for a while and Joffrey did not seem too displeased with her, though he did not let her put her hand around his arm. Sansa breathed in the dry warmth that rose from the sunned walls. She heard the quiet murmur of the sea nearby and she felt hope surge in her breast.  

She was about to ask the Prince if he found the scenery as beautiful as she did, when he suddenly took a step away from her and leaned over the parapet. He seemed to be staring down at something that had caught his eye.

Sansa stopped demurely next to him and craned her neck to see.

He was looking at… _Jon._

Below them was an inner yard meant for the training of the guards. Sansa recognized Jory Cassel standing a few feet away, watching John fence with one of his men.

They were both using real swords and the dissonant clash of metal against metal made her shiver.  Jon skillfully blocked an advance and slid his blade around his opponent, confusing him momentarily.

 “Is that your bastard brother?” Joffrey asked with a queer note in his voice.

 “Yes, my Prince.”

Sansa bit her lip, wondering not for the first time if perhaps Jon Snow’s presence at court would diminish her prospects with Joffrey.

“I remember him from Winterfell... They all look alike, don’t they?”

“What do you mean, my Prince?”

“Those born out of wicked lust, they’ve all got the same face.”

Sansa could not tell what he meant by it. Jon seemed to her the least lustful bastard she had met, and he certainly had a distinct face. She could not mistake him for a common boy from a village in the North. He bore her father’s features. But she nodded gravely. 

“My father used to say Ned Stark was more virtuous than a septon,” Joffrey added with some humor. “What do you think, my lady?”

Sansa was not sure what he wanted to hear, but she could not remain silent for risk of offending him. “I think…we all make mistakes in our youth.”

Joffrey smiled and it very much improved his countenance. He was so handsome when he wanted to be. Still, there was a shadow at the corner of his mouth, it almost looked green. “ _I_ shan’t make that mistake, my lady.”

“Of course not, my Prince.”

Joffrey looked at her half-brother again. “I should have him try my dog for a change. To get his sword wet.”

Sansa worried her lip at the thought. The Hound was standing behind them in all his ugly glory. She would never wish him upon her worst enemies, but her Prince was only teasing, surely.

It was at this moment that the guards below noticed their presence above and Jory Cassel bowed stiffly.

This seemed to draw Jon’s attention from the fight. As he looked up, his opponent struck a small blow to his side and her half-brother was not quick enough to block it. He was sent stumbling to the side.

Joffrey chuckled merrily. “What do you thing, Dog? Would you like to fight this fearsome Snow?”

The Hound grunted something that sounded like “snow-piss” behind them.

Sansa flushed uncomfortably. She felt ashamed that she had been witness to this scene, although she did not know who to blame and what for.

Jon’s dark grey eyes surveyed them from below. She felt in some obscure way that he was judging her, which did not seem fair. _She_ hadn’t made him stumble. It had nothing to do with her. Sansa almost flinched when he returned to the fight with renewed zest and cast a fierce blow on his opponent, making their swords ring sharply in the cool summer air.

Joffrey was quick to notice her discomfort. His hand flew to her chin, lifting it up gently. Sansa’s heart beat painfully in her chest.

“Does he upset you, my lady?”

_Oh, yes, yes, send him away_ , she thought, glancing sideways at the Hound.

But she soon realized Joffrey was talking about Jon.

“No, my Prince. I don’t mind him,” she answered truthfully, for she was content to ignore him and she hoped Joffrey would too.

“Hmm…very well,” he murmured with a pensive smile, which she interpreted as a good sign. He was concerned on her behalf and that could only mean he cared, surely?

But the rest of the walk did not give her better insight into his feelings, for though he showed her the preparation of the tents and pavilions with some degree of enthusiasm, he was still quite cool in manner.

Sansa stifled a sigh. A future queen had to have patience.

She could still hear the ringing of swords in her ears.

 

 

Jon felt angry afterwards and was tempted to tell Arya about Sansa and Joffrey’s inopportune visit, but he told himself he didn’t want to stoke more sisterly vitriol between them.  He had thoroughly hated being spied on by the conceited little prince. He had seen him laugh with Sansa on the wall above and he could only imagine they were gossiping about him, discussing his low birth, no doubt. He had felt a profound dislike for his own sister, though perhaps he had better call her half-sister, as she called him. Arya was right about her; she was becoming self-important. Soon, she would not deign to dine with them.

At the time, he'd guided his anger in his sword and let it run its course. He had gotten a few chiding remarks from Jory for his temper. 

But later in the evening, as he washed up and readied for supper, he reflected that he did not care one way or another. _Let them mock me._

There was no love lost between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the comments and kudos! i hope you enjoyed this chapter! i also hope i didn't get many things wrong; it's been ages since i read the first book, but since most of this is AU maybe i can get away with it? 
> 
> i'd also like to add that jaime's teasing was so ironic because if jon ended up on the kingsguard under joffrey and sansa, that would certainly not mirror another incestuous duo we know. nope, not at all.


	3. the tourney (part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you're still interested in this story because i have so many plans for it! i'm taking a few liberties with book canon, particularly the order of events, so keep that in mind, but on we go!  
> (many thanks also for your comments and kudos)

As the day of the tourney drew near, The Red Keep started simmering with activity. Everywhere he went, Jon was pushed aside.

“Make room, make room!” an aggravated castellan would cry out, carrying with him a list of errands. A dozen brewers and bakers would trail after him, waiting for instructions. 

There was a lot of coming and going and plenty of shouting and screaming from various lower quarters. Panic floated in the air like a vicious swarm of flies.

The castle was also teeming with lords and ladies who had travelled from all over Westeros to ingratiate themselves with the King and his new Hand.

All in all, the Red Keep was overstuffed and threatening to spill over. One lonely bastard could very well go unnoticed. He was wanted nowhere on account of the preparations; there was no rest for him in the Tower of the Hand or on the training grounds. The only thing left to do was to sneak off with Arya into the undercrofts and cellars to find some cool and quiet.

Jon worried for her sometimes. Arya was growing to be independent and ungovernable, which he’d normally liked in Winterfell, but here… She didn’t want to wear a dress to the tourney or have her hair done after the Southron fashion for the occasion. Sansa had once again impressed upon her the offense she would bring Queen Cersei.

Jon cared not a jot for the Queen, but he wondered about Arya’s future prospects. She was only a child now, but in a few years, her rebellious ways would no longer be considered charming. Jon knew very well what it was like to spark disapproval from his betters. He did not want his trueborn sister to suffer on account of her character.

As they wound their way through one of the storerooms, Arya picked up a radish and started nibbling at it. Jon stole it from her and held it above his head, where she had no hope of reaching.

But Arya was more cunning as of late. Syrio Forel had taught her how to overcome an enemy twice her size. Jon dodged just in time to avoid her cat-like attack.

“You’re getting better,” he laughed.

“I’ll become good enough to compete in the tourney someday,” she informed him archly.

Jon heaved a sigh. “I wish that were true.”

“Of course it will be true! I will be good enough.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Jon mumbled, looking away. “Listen, don’t get upset now, but I think you’d look nice in a dress.”

“Oh, not you too!”

“Father would be pleased –”

“Father won’t even notice. Have you been listening to Sansa again?” she demanded.

Jon rolled his eyes. He more often than not stoppered his ears when his sister talked. He’d made sure to act colder towards her ever since she had laughed at him with Joffrey, but she hadn’t noticed there were any hard feelings between them. Of course, he was insignificant to her.

Jon spat on the ground, though it was not a very graceful gesture.

“You want to watch the tourney from the first rows, don’t you?” he asked, trying a different tactic.

Arya nodded.

“Well then, they won’t let a little lady sit there without the proper attire.”

“Why should the proper attire be a dress?” Arya countered ruefully.

“Because,” and Jon paused dramatically, racking his brains for a convenient excuse. It came to him all of a sudden. “Because any young girl might be chosen for the Queen of Love and Beauty.”

Arya issued a derisive laugh. “I won’t, I’m too small and skinny, and I don’t want to.”

“You might not, but you still have to wear the dress.  Think of it as a uniform.”

He could see that Arya was at least thinking about it, which was good enough for him.

She was right, though. Arya was too young and scrawny to be crowned Queen of Love and Beauty. Sansa…perhaps. Though, he found her new Southron fashion rather unbecoming.

 

 

The unromantic truth about a tourney was that it stank. Horse shit and sweat did not mingle well with the perfumes of court. Jon felt cramped in his seat on the bench. The jousting was about to begin and yet his head was swimming with too many scents and sounds. He should have been excited to see the Knights in all their splendor run each other down with lances, but there was so much pomp and circumstance to the proceedings that he was growing tired and impatient. The King was already drunk, by the looks of it, and the Queen had moved away from him in disgust. Other lords were also drinking heavily, as if to follow the monarch’s example. The stench of stables was made worse by that of foul wine and fried meat. Jon’s stomach almost turned.

Fortunately, his father was not a man to grease his fingers at such an event, particularly since the tourney was in his name. Eddard Stak stood rigid on the seat below him, observing the proceedings with a heavy brow. He had not wanted the festivities, had wished for the gold to be spent on better things. He had told Jon as much at dinner.  But he had been silenced by both Sansa and Arya, who for once, agreed on something. They both wanted to see the tourney.

Jon flinched as his father suddenly rose and turned to him.

“Jon. Look after your sisters. I have some business to attend to.”

Sansa and Arya sat with their Septa a few seats away. They both turned their heads at their father’s words. 

Sansa cleared her throat. “But you are the guest of honor, Father. You can’t leave.”

“I’ll only be gone awhile. There’s someone I must speak with,” he replied coolly and stared across the jousting court towards the few squires getting the saddles ready.

“Jon,” he added again, and Jon nodded, shifting closer to his sisters.

Arya had made them all a concession and wore the high-collared blue dress that was becoming of a young lady, though she tugged at it incessantly. She did look quite pretty in it and Jon told her so, which had the effect of infuriating her.

He was surprised to find that Sansa was not wearing her hair up in Southron fashion. There were only two small coils on top of her head but the rest of her locks were flowing down her back. She wore a rather demure grey gown that brought out her pale skin. He nodded towards her silently. She smiled a polite, distant smile and turned away.

Her eyes were sizing up the young knights and squires on display. She had probably never seen so many handsome young men in one place. Her cheeks were slightly colored. Suppose Jon couldn't begrudge her these pleasures. Still, she seemed to be searching for something or _someone_.

Joffrey had not yet arrived in the box next to the King. Jon hoped he’d absent himself.

A few trumpets started blaring and a brisk, ceremonial tune announced the crowd that the first pair of jousters was getting ready to face off.

The Knights rode on their stallions, fully equipped in their armor, the visor not yet pulled over their faces.

The first was announced by the squire as Ser Horas Redwyne. But the other one made Jon start. It was their very own Jory Cassel!

Jon and Arya started clapping intensely while Sansa smiled and waved her arm in favor.

“I didn’t know he was competing!” Arya whispered excitedly.

Neither did Jon. He even felt slightly _jealous_. Who knows, perhaps he might have been allowed to participate too.

The two jousters made their dutiful bows to the King who waved his arm impatiently. “Yes, yes, get on with it!”

And then – Jon couldn’t say. It was a flurry of movement and action.

He thought that since their seats were quite close to the ground they might catch every moment of the joust, but that was hardly so.

The horses galloped in a flash of hoofs and steam, the lances scraped painfully against each other and before Jon could understand what had happened, one of the jousters was fallen over like a crooked tooth. Two more tilts followed in the same blur of incongruous movement. At the end of it – Jory had won!

Jon and Arya both howled happily in their seats while Sansa clapped politely. Her smile slowly stretched into a grin. They were all quite fond of their castellan.

It was exciting afterwards to follow Jory on his road to conquest. He faced off someone from House Frey and won that too and they were all thinking he might make it into the semi-finals, when he was quite suddenly put down by a gruff looking rider by the name of Lothor Brune. Arya and Jon booed unhappily and Sansa’s shoulders sagged.

With Jory out of the competition, Jon followed the tourney with less interest as before. Not until Jaime Lannister took up the lance did the action become more interesting, but the Kingslayer unseated all of his opponents so there was nothing exciting about his tilts.

Only Sansa gave a little shriek when one of the lances cut a Knight’s shoulder too deep and blood started pouring out. She brought her scented handkerchief to her mouth, and Arya laughed at her.

Jon took a cup of mulled wine and sipped, glancing sideways at the courtiers milling about or sitting down. Many of them had hedged bets on the jousters and were losing or collecting money.

He was distracted for a moment and failed to see when Lord Baelish materialized in front of their seats.

He wore a splendid tunic of brocade and his ubiquitous mockingbird pin glinted at his throat. He smiled down at Sansa and paused before her. She was still holding the handkerchief to her mouth, but she lowered it slowly when she felt the man’s fingers on her cheek.

Jon stiffened in his seat, not knowing what to do. Lord Baelish was a…friend, if he could be called that. But should he take such liberties?

“You have your mother’s lovely hair,” he murmured, staring down at her with a wistful gaze.

“I…thank you, my lord,” she mumbled nervously, drawing her locks over her shoulder.

Jon coughed loudly behind her.

Lord Baelish met his gaze and his mouth smiled, though his eyes remained cold.

“Ah, Jon Snow. How are you enjoying the tourney? Your _first_ , I imagine?”

“Enjoying it well, my lord,” Jon replied coolly. “But you are standing in the way of our view.”

Baelish’s eyes flashed with humor and he bowed his head an inch. “I’m sure we shall speak again soon.”

Jon noticed that his words were also meant for Sansa. He did not know what to make of this. Should he tell his father?

Baelish disappeared swiftly into the throng of people, leaving Jon feeling slightly frustrated.  

Sansa turned her profile to him.  “You shouldn’t have spoken to him like that, Jon.”

 _And why not?_ he wanted to ask brazenly. They weren’t at court now. Or at least, the Red Keep was looming behind them.

But he didn’t have to answer her chastising words because her gaze was suddenly drawn to the King’s box where Prince Joffrey had finally deigned to honor the festivities with his presence.

Sansa’s breath caught a little in her throat. Jon rolled his eyes, but even _he_ had to admit the bastard looked very regal in his golden attire.

The jousting was dragging on into late afternoon by now and people were getting weary and impatient. The feast could only proceed after the last jousters had competed against each other.

There was a strange tension in the air, as if everyone wanted the violence to either end or increase in carnage. It seemed they would get their wish when the next Knight who entered the joust was announced as Ser Gregor Clegane.

“Clegane,” Sansa repeated with a small catch in her voice. She looked up towards the King’s Box where the Hound was stationed next to Joffrey, looking as fierce and terrifying as ever.

“Yes, child. That’s his brother. They call him the Mountain,” the Septa confirmed, following her gaze.

Jon could very well believe it. This man was _huge_ and deadly and insensible. His face spoke only of slaughter. He didn’t seem to care about tourneys, but he starved for blood.

He was facing off Ser Hugh of the Vale, a wisp of a man, by comparison.

Jon felt that this was hardly a fair fight. The only Knight who could have withstood someone like the Mountain was Jaime Lannister and even that was taking a chance.

But poor Ser Hugh bowed before the king and dragged his feet towards his horse.

Sansa clutched the Septa’s hand.

“But – but he’s so small!”

“There’s more to jousting than size, child,” the Septa assured her, though she looked quite worried on his behalf.

The two men mounted their horses and the difference was even more telling. Gregor Clegane was more beast than his stallion.

They started at a slow trot and gradually galloped faster towards each other. Inching closer and closer.

The crowd stood still.

The lance went directly through Ser Hugh’s throat, piercing him so badly that it disgorged him. A rain of blood fell on the ground.

Arya screamed, more in rage than fear, but she seemed quite shaken by the sight of the dead man. Jon took hold of her shoulder to steady her. _Where_ was their father?

The Septa had her own arm around Sansa, soothing her as best she could, but the girl was eerily still, her face as white as a sheet.

“They won’t be singing songs about Ser Hugh,” she murmured, squeezing her handkerchief.

No one was in the mood to watch anymore after that. The jousting was over for the day, but Ser Gregor would terrify them again in the next rounds. Jon wondered if he should talk to his father about keeping his sisters away from future jousts.

The pregnant atmosphere was slightly lifted when a beautiful knight with flowing brown hair rode in on a white horse. His armor was wrought with jeweled flowers and his cape was woven with roses too. It seemed he cherished the flower greatly. He was giving young ladies white roses and praising their beauty. The blood was still drying on the jousting court, but he seemed to ignore it.

The pretty knight was turning heads everywhere he went. He never stopped smiling. His white teeth shone in the evening dusk. He stopped his mound in front of Sansa and bowed his head. Perhaps he had seen her distraught face. 

“No victory is half so beautiful as you,” and he delivered her a red rose.

Sansa was blushing so hard that her cheeks matched the bud’s russet color. She smiled a coy smile and thanked the Knight so profusely you’d think he had saved her life from impending danger.

Jon forced himself not to roll his eyes.

The knight rode away with a grin. Sansa brought the rose to her nostrils and inhaled deeply, but quite suddenly –

“ _Aaah_!”

His instincts reacted before he had the wherewithal to assess the situation. Jon almost sprang out of his seat. His hand gripped her shoulder, spinning her around.

“Sansa! What’s _wrong_?” She’d shrieked worse than death.

His sister shoved the red rose into his face with a disgusted grimace.

“There’s a worm inside!”

Arya howled with laughter next to her, nearly falling out of her seat.

Jon sighed wearily and pried the rose from her fingers. He patiently coaxed out the small black worm from the petals. It was probably more frightened of them than the other way around. He set it down on the ground, hoping it would not get trampled by careless feet.

He gave the rose back to Sansa. His sister thanked him and looked towards her lap self-consciously. She felt considerably silly now.

“I’m sorry, I just can’t stand it when beautiful things are spoiled,” she murmured, clutching the rose between her fingers.

Jon coughed and looked away. If she cried about everything that was spoiled in life, there’d only be a vale of tears - he thought, but didn’t say.

"Right, we are expected at the feast," the Septa announced grimly, urging them to get up from their seats. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i hope you enjoyed that! also, 2 things:  
> 1\. there's going to be a second part to the tourney, and we're going to read about the feast too. now smth veeery interesting happens at the feast for jonsa, so stay tuned.  
> 2\. maybe some of you have noticed that jeyne poole is not in this story and this is frankly because i need sansa to be a liiittle bit more isolated than in the book. i need her to be in search of a confidante. and this will be relevant later.


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